Then one day, a woman entering her middle years decided to try to reclaim some control over that part of her life where she'd been given no choice. She had married and had three more children, and over time, told them of the sister they had never met. She reached out to try to find the daughter she reluctantly gave away.

My parents had adopted me, their second child, and by loving me, honoured the sacrifice my birth mother had had to make.

After 27 years, they were hit by the news that my birth mother was seeking information. How would they tell me that for 27 years they had lied by omission? They were good people, loving parents.

It broke their hearts to think they may have done the wrong thing by not telling me and were terrified of the impact of this on me, and our relationship. It took months before they could tell me. My father sobbed as he tried to find the words.

As I watched him, I assumed the worst. Was someone about to die? The secret had been so well guarded that I was oblivious. My mum never mentioned that conversation. So I, too, kept quiet and set about proving I was happy with the family I had. I somehow felt all this fuss was my fault and I needed to make sure my parents were OK.

I saw my story unfold on current affairs shows. Adoption laws were changing. People were, like me, finding out as adults they had been adopted. For some, this began a healing process and explained long-held feelings of disconnection. I'd never consciously had those feelings. I had sympathy for the woman who gave me life but no desire to meet her.

I was told the agency insisted I write to them to inform them I knew I was adopted. I was defensive, in shock. So in the letter I made it clear that I wanted total control over any future contact. That letter became pivotal in what was to follow. Looking back, I was protecting myself and my parents in the only way I knew how. Through silence.

It took another 27 years before I was ready to open that door. I had spent thousands on counselling. I read about the impact of being adopted. The disconnection, isolation, attachment and abandonment, I finally recognised them all.

I knew she wouldn't be hard to find; she was on file. Before I knew it I was in an office with a social worker. It was then that I found out the true cost of living at the mercy of others.

My biological mother was dead. She had died 11 years earlier. She had died young.

What lay before me were documents, letters and social worker notes. They opened a Pandora's box of questions unanswered, information that wasn't passed on, conflicting information, conversations between those around me and social workers.

I read how others had interpreted my actions and made judgments about who I was. I cried when I read the letter my birth mother had written to me, but I had never seen. She had also written to my parents before they told me, to reassure them that her intentions were honourable, that I had nothing to fear or be ashamed of, and to thank them for caring for me. Her respect and dignity was inspiring. They really did have nothing to fear from her. I never knew.

Ten years after I was told of my adoption, my birth mother wrote to the social workers to pass on medical information. It was relayed over the phone but the social worker chose not to ask if I wanted to see the letter and photo on file, nor to tell me that she had always expressed a desire to meet me.

Five years later another letter came. My file notes say I didn't respond to it. I can't remember. They chose not to follow up my lack of response.

This letter was about my mother's breast cancer. They should have tried at least one more time to reach me in case the letter had gone astray. “Please be sure my daughter is informed.” Her daughter was never informed.

A couple of years later my mother wrote to them again, I suspect a few months before she died, with a final plea. “. . . I leave this in your hands”. Her words fell on deaf ears.

The cost for my biological mother and I was enormous. I didn't find out about her breast cancer; was never reminded of her letter to me, or her desire to meet me. I did not get the opportunity to make decisions in full knowledge of all the facts.

But I have to own my part in all of this and that's hard. Two letters – one which was given far too much power and another that wasn't given enough.

Had I known all the facts, had the authorities persisted in getting in touch when it mattered most, I would have met my mother. How could I not?

In one of her letters, my mother wrote, “Truth makes us all free”. I have now had tentative contact with her family. I have hope for what lies ahead and some sense that peace may yet come from all this. I am hoping my mother was right.